


Angel of death

by EbonyMortisRose



Series: The story of Dylan Jackal & Mr Hyde [2]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Child Loss, Dylans Sire, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, M/M, Male Homosexuality, My OC Dylan Jackal, Name drop Dr. Reid, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyMortisRose/pseuds/EbonyMortisRose
Summary: Dylan, husband to Mary Reid has gone to war.  The months in the trenches are taking it's toll.  How was he to know that the very man that brings him sinful comfort in that hell hole would also take his life.
Series: The story of Dylan Jackal & Mr Hyde [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821553
Kudos: 3





	Angel of death

Dylan sucked on the damp dog end, letting the warming smoke caress his throat and hug his lungs.  
The smoke also helped mask the festering smell of the sick and dying that surrounded him.  
Poor soldiers like himself that had not been so lucky.  
Those more able-bodied, offered what comfort they could. But they only had a limited supply of pain relief and they didn't know when the next medic run would be.  
So, amongst the unashamed muffled sobs, there were the cries of agony, soldiers begging for relief, even death.

He pulls his jacket around himself, trying to trap in what little warmth he could.  
Spring in France was always cold. But as the last of the sun died over the horizon of no man's land. The encroaching darkness brought with it a chill, that seeped into his very bones, causing his teeth to chatter.  
He closed his eyes trying to remember what it felt like to feel warm and safe.  
His exhausted mind offers him a memory, of being curled up on the sofa with his wife Mary.  
The open fire crackling in the large stone fireplace. His wife rested her head on his shoulder, as he read out loud to her.  
It was an advantage of his family owning a prestigious bookshop in Paris, being that he could get most volumes shipped to him in England. And even though she had access to a wondrous variety of topics, her tastes always tended towards the macabre. That evening it was The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  
He remembers how content he felt as her breathing grew shallow, indicating she had fallen asleep, and looking over proudly at her swollen belly. Feeling the rush of excitement at the prospect of being a father very soon.

Then his head suddenly snaps up with a shock, realising he had nodded off.  
He even did not hear Henry climb out of the nearby trench tunnel. Where he had been all day working with other miners to tunnel under enemies lines and set mines.  
It was a dangerous job, not only for the fact that tones of earth could collapse on you at any moment.  
Mines could accidentally detonate, and in one case miners had dug straight into the path of enemy soldiers coming the other way.  
Henry was in that group and the only one to come out of that skirmish like a demon from hell. Covered in blood, none of it his and actually grinning. He couldn't blame him for losing his mind at that point.

With one of his elegant hands he takes the cigarette from his lips and draws on it.  
The pitiful dying glow of the ash at its end, causes every shadow to accentuate his perfect porcelain features. His high cheekbones, his alabaster skin.  
He marveled at the fact that the man didn't have a mark on him, even after all he had been through.  
He always seemed to have the time to keep himself well-groomed. Dark hair short in the military-style, no mustache always clean-shaven. His own face in comparison was covered in gashes and grazes, and coated in a thin line of mostly mud. He supposed it was his way of coping, of feeling in control of something.

The man gives a small smile and discards the cigarette. His baby blue eyes roaming over Dylan's face. lingering for a fraction too long on his lips, before settling, staring into his own tired and probably bloodshot green ones.

"You know those things will kill you?"

He can't help but huff out a laugh. Even though there was no mirth behind it.  
The relative silence is then shattered by someone crying out in pain. Screaming for someone, in most cases, it was their mothers. This was followed by other angry shouts of, "Shut him up!" "For Christ's sake! Be quiet, he's gonna get us killed!"  
Dylan knows what's coming next and covers his hands with his ears. Squeezing his eyes shut, trying desperately to grasp that memory of home. He flinches when the shot rings out and begins to tremble and can't stop the tears rolling down his mud-coated face.  
The wails of the dammed around grow louder at that moment, wondering like him if they will ever get out of here alive.

Cold lips are then pressed against his. It's such a shock to his system that he's suddenly hyper-focused on only that. All the moaning and wailing muted, forgotten.  
He opens his eyes to see Henry, nose to nose with him. His blue eyes somehow glinting in these dark conditions.  
He dare not move, hands clasped still over his ears, thinking that any movement might break this spell.  
Instead he manages to whisper, "did you just?"

Henry kisses him again gently. His strong arms, toned by hours of digging wrap around his waist, pulling his close.  
He had seen other men finding comfort in the arms of fellow soldiers, knowing full well they had wives waiting at home. But when you had got to the point where each day might be your last, who were you to judge where a man got even a moment of comfort. But he was a good Christian, this was wrong.

He pulls his head away, unable to step fully away being encircle by henrys vice-like embrace.  
He knows no one can see them. There is a single oil lamp under a nearby tarp, turned down so low it hardly emits a glow stronger than a single candle. He also knows if they were observed the looks given would be one of envy, not disgust.

He plants his hands onto Henrys shoulders, trying to push away, shaking his head.

"No this is wrong, we can't. We will go to hell."

One of Henrys arms travels up his back, cupping the back of his head and ever so gently brings him forward.  
He's so strong, that's why he can't pull away. He's weak, malnourished. That's why he's letting him pull him so close to those beautifully crafted lips. When their lips meet again Henry rumbles into the kiss.

"My dear boy, we are in hell. So sin with me."

*******************************

**PAIN!** White-hot agony, he couldn't pinpoint it. Everywhere felt like it was on fire. Yes, he was burning. He could feel his flesh bubbling, bursting. He tries to scream but the searing heat rips down his throat, turning his cries to ash. He has to get away!

_"Private Jackal!"_

Please help me! ho God, please stop the pain! He was in hell, he had committed sodomy and now he was burning for it! Please god I'm sorry!!

_"Private!"_

_"Medic, I need help with is one!"_

_"What happened?"_

_"Mustard gas attack, he was the lucky one. Was inside a tunnel with another soldier when the shelling happened. The rest of the team didn't make it."_

_"Set up the Sodium Hypochlorite, hand me those scissors we need to get these clothes off!_   
_My god, I know this man. Dylan, Dylan can you hear me? It's Jonathan I'm going to give you something for the pain. It's going to beeee.aaaalriiiight............"_

*******************************

Dylan sat on the stone steps of the Rue Morgue casualty clearing station based in Ypres.  
The doors to the hospital were shut behind him. But he could still hear the muted conversations of the nurses, as they busied with settling recovering soldiers in for the night.  
They let him sit out here, in the open space, in the fresh air. Even though his burnt and scarred skin was still sensitive to the slighted brush of wind, or pinpricks of rain. But he welcomed those sensations, because right now all he felt was numb.  
He stared at a point just above his boots. he had been like this, unmoving for what felt like hours now.  
The left side of his face was heavily bandaged, so were his hands. The result of the chemical burns produced by the gas attack. Thankfully he hadn't lost his sight, but it was so painful to speak he chose not to.  
But at one point his hoarse cries had brought out a concerned nurse, who knew they could do nothing to soothe his anguish. They could only apologise over and over about giving him that damn telegraph.  
Of how they should have read it first, before just passing it to him, thinking that as it was from his wife it might bare happy news.  
The salt from his tears that had soaked his bandages should be stinging his blistered cheek, but he felt nothing. He couldn't risk feeling anything again. He had to be strong, he had to get home back to Mary.  
But apart from his burns, he was still classed as able-bodied, and every man was needed back on the front. It was only a matter of time before they would send him back out there. Back into the jaws of hell and he may never return.

He hears someone approach along the empty evening street. The echoing clack of shoes on flagstone.  
He doesn't look up, he doesn't care who it is. They can't hurt him he thinks, nothing can match the pain of the last few hours.

"Dylan, there you are!"

Henry takes a seat next to him on the steps. He can feel those blue eyes of his scanning his body, taking in his disheveled appearance and his puffy flushed face from hours of crying. He probably even notices his hand, still gripping the telegraph so hard it trembles as if he could squeeze the very venom in those words out. So all would be well and his baby boy would not be dead.

"I know the pain of losing a child, you have my greatest sympathy."

His lip begins to tremble. He was wrong when he thought his tears had ran dry. They had only regrouped and soon begin a fresh assault over his tender flesh.

Henry slowly reaches out his pale hand and squeezes the back of his right one, he can feel the cold of it even through his bandages .  
He swallows and it's like he has sunburn on the inside of his throat. When he speaks it comes out a gravely whisper.

"They..are..going..to..send..me..back..out..there..you know."

He swallows again wincing before continuing. "I cant ...die..out..there..Mary..needs..me."

He sees Henrys well-manicured profile out of the corner of his eye nod, and feels him pat his hand gently.  
Then run his tongue around the inside of his mouth over his teeth, seemingly deep in thought.

"What if I could ensure you survived, that you could see your sweetheart again?"

Dylan looks up at this comment. After all they had been through was he actually implying that they dissert?  
Yes he was injured, yes he was terrified of going back out there, but he was no coward!

His grief now molding into anger causes him to yell his response at Henry. Ignoring the fact that the air that is expelled by his lungs feels like its sandpaper ripping up his throat.

"IM NOT RUNNING AWAY!, IM NOT A COWARD!"

Henry raises his hands in the universal sign of surrender. His perfect features soften, only spoiled by the tiny crease in his brow brought on by concern for his friend's obvious painful outburst.

"No you are not. You are one of the bravest men I have had the pleasure of serving with, and you actually remind me of myself in my youth."

Dylan tries to get his raspy breathing under control. What was he thinking, this man had saved his life. He was his friend. He was just so damn tired, all he wanted was to get home to Mary.

He takes in another slow and steady breath, then swallows what feels like small shards of glass, then says.

"I'm sorry. What do you have in mind?"

Henry's brow pinches further and his countenance takes on a more serious feature as if outwardly displaying some internal conflict, then to himself, he mutters.

"it's bound to work, he's strong, he will pull through"

Dylan tilts his head, barely hearing Henry's words through his bandaged ears "What did you say?"

Henry just reaches up and with those long feminine fingers strokes his bandaged cheek.  
But when he speaks again, it is still not directly to him, and his voice shifts into a more deep melodic tone.

"The change will heal this too. I can see your lungs are damaged from the gas. If you did survive this war, I do not see you living to see your 40th year."

He creases his brow feeling a little lightheaded.

"Henry, what are you talking about? You're not making sense, are you alright?"

His eyes then meet his and he can't help but take in a short painful breath. Had they always been so blue, like two pools of glistening ice, they suddenly became his whole world.

He then barely hears Henry whisper in a deep tone almost liquid **"** _ **Come with me."**_

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to 'The beast inside Mr. Hyde.'


End file.
